Because, if you’re going to poop yourself to death, you want to look good doing it.

As I’ve mentioned previously, as a result of very specific testing circumstances, I’ve chosen a few favorite makeup products that I will use until the end of time. The end of time. This statement might seem dramatic until you know the specific circumstances that this next product once survived—nay, the circumstances it conquered.

Testing circumstance #2:  Rotavirus of 2007

Product:  Clinique’s Advanced Concealer

Clinique's Advanced Concealer

The best damn concealer in the universe

“Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.” —Charles Dickens, David Copperfield

Heretofore, only a few people in the whole world have known this story.

It was a warm Tuesday in April, and Terry and I had just gotten home the day before from attending my bridal shower at my grandma’s house in northern Illinois.  I woke up in a cheerful mood, which should have been my first indication that something was terribly wrong.  Sometimes, my mood becomes more cheerful as a day progresses, if I avoid getting cat litter in my eyes, for instance (that might have just happened, which is why it’s on my mind) or if I have cake to eat for breakfast (and throughout the day because I could pretend that I’d stop eating cake after breakfast, but we all know that isn’t true).  But, generally, I do not wake up feeling cheerful.  I usually wake up feeling murder-y.

So, I got ready for the day, including my typical application of makeup, which involved (and still involves) Clinique’s Advanced Concealer for under-eye circles and anything else that could be construed as unattractive on my face.  Eventually, Terry and I decided to go to the local Chinese Buffet (that is the restaurant’s official name) for lunch.  (This was pre-Ted, so I have no memory of how I used to fill my days . . . probably with lots of candy and carefree belly dancing. But, regardless, I can’t be specific about what I did between breakfast and lunch because I have no idea.) And that’s where, as I tried to eat some noodles, I experienced a chill of foreshadowing.  Even though I was starving, I DIDN’T WANT TO EAT THEM.  If you’ve ever been verbally abused by me when I’m hungry, then you know that I ALWAYS eat as soon as possible so that I can go back to being the inspiring ray of sunshine that I usually am.  I’m nauseated so infrequently that I often fail to recognize it for what it is—a death knell. Because we all know that nausea is the death of all that is good and hopeful in the world.

All remained semi-well until 4:12 p.m.  That’s when it started.  I think that the events of that evening are best addressed via an open letter of apology to my husband. Because he witnessed me pooping my pants.


A rotavirus cell–this is the bastard that almost caused me
to poop myself to death.

Dearest Terrance (That isn’t his name, but, when I’m dealing with awkward subject matter like pooping my pants, I tend to make bad jokes to mask my awkwardness, although, frankly, I am a modern woman who CAN have it all, and part of having it all is finding a partner who doesn’t mind when you poop your pants in front of them.  I DESERVE IT.):

I’m sorry that, on a day that started out so promisingly, you had to find me half-naked and passed out on the bathroom floor. That was not my intent when I said, “Something is about to happen,” before walking to the bathroom. But, really, I should get credit for lying down before passing out so that you didn’t have to deal with a concussed fiancée who had passed out while experiencing a digestive system incident so horrific that she knew she was going to die an embarrassing, poop-related, Elvis-y death.  Also, to be fair, I didn’t yell at the dogs even once after I’d regained consciousness when they kept coming up and sniffing and licking my face while I was still lying on the floor, even though I’m quite sure they weren’t checking on me so much as they were checking to see if I was dead, yet, so that they could quarter me and bury my limbs in the yard, much like Mr. Cookie Pants, whose dismembered arm we found sticking up out of a pile of dead leaves and mulch one autumn day.

Also, I’m sorry for insisting that I try to eat something once I was conscious again and lying on top of our bed because, the last time I had passed out, I had felt awful for hours afterwards because I hadn’t eaten anything. Now, we both know that a person with a rotavirus shouldn’t eat anything, fainting or not, but, at the time, it didn’t seem obvious to me.

So, I’m sorry that I ate crackers and toast and drank juice while lying on our bed with a rotavirus, and I’m sorry that these actions resulted in what I can only refer to as The Quilt Incident of 2007.  A handsome young man should never have to hear his almost-wife sob, “Oh, no, I’m POOPING,” while she’s lying in their bed, upchucking at the same time.

In addition, I’m sorry that, when I was lying on the bathroom floor again and hallucinating while waiting for my mom to arrive with Gatorade, I dreamed of rushing waterfalls and Technicolor snowstorms instead of your delightful, smiling, calm face (which you seemed to have expected, which is weird, but I guess these are the things you think about before getting married . . . if you’re Ike Turner). But, really, if it weren’t for grape Gatorade, you would have had to explain to everyone how I died of pooping, so I believe that not dying made up for not hallucinating about you.

It was around this time that I became so dehydrated that my memories of the later hours of that evening are fuzzy.  But I do know that you somehow managed to clean up the bed, do several loads of laundry, clean me up, and call my mom for back-up, all the while checking on me constantly to make sure I hadn’t died of over-pooping and to make sure I kept my pants on while waiting for my mom to arrive with lots of Gatorade.  That’s heroism, my friend.

Finally, I’m sorry that I gave YOU the rotavirus of 2007 . . . but I think I took awesome care of you, especially considering that I had almost Elvis-ed the night before.

Your loving wife,


Now, you might be wondering what on earth this story has to do with a product review of a concealer, but what is MOST REMARKABLE about this story is that, after ALL of that, when I looked in the mirror the next morning, the concealer was still hiding my dark circles and blemishes.  So, suck on that, CoverGirl and Maybelline, because Clinique’s got it all over you in the concealer department.

In fact, the Advanced Concealer works SO well that you have to be careful not to apply too much at one time, as it can easily look cakey if you try to slop it on like you have to slop on all other types of concealers (because they don’t work).  Also, while it will easily cover any skin discoloration that you could possibly have, people will still be able to tell if you spent 15 minutes picking at a gigantic pimple, only to have it look like you’ve got a parasitic worm crater on your cheek.  So, don’t do that.  (I know you’ll still do it.)

So, if you must have pimples and under-eye circles and a rotavirus, you must purchase a tube of Clinique’s Advanced Concealer.  When they find your lifeless body on the bathroom floor with your pants around your knees and they comment on the flawlessness of your makeup instead, you’ll be glad you did.

6 thoughts on “Because, if you’re going to poop yourself to death, you want to look good doing it.

  1. Pingback: For when you don’t want to murder anyone on Mother’s Day. | Reviews of a super-consumer

  2. Pingback: Because, sometimes, you want to eat a container of whipped cream in peace. | Reviews of a super-consumer

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